Aubade

Aubade

Awake, my love, it’s nearly seven and one of Carew’s
chirpy friends just telephoned the news
that an eighty-nine year old Chalmers Doane
will be sharing insights into ukulele later on today.

Awake, my love, it’s nearly five past seven. World Report
reports Ignatieff reporting that the Liberals are the Center,
I say again, Center of Canada now.

“Indeed,” repeat Barry McKinnon, the Fredericton School
and that great Cloud of Witnesses Michael’s Uncle Georges
stretching back all the way to a War when this Province
collected tolls from Maine. More Carr than Carman,
they reflect.

Awake, my love, if still you live,
if the punky root still smolders beneath soil watched
by Argus-eyed foresters bearing razor-honed spades,
watered by two-score years of heavy rain.

See I have thrust a message down the throat
of this empty oil jar, sealed it with beeswax,
hid it fast where none but the place’s seven foot high
codex jinnee can say, “Sesame!” as she or he wills.

That plunky instrument still stands astride earth’s
mightiest mountain, symbolizing one small
century’s dominion over the abode
of the yellow bellied snake. I can almost hear
Sindbad laughing. At the bottom of the sea.